In This Divine Glass
by Robin Sparrow
Summary: A Snape-centric fic taking place between the first and second books, about what might have happened to the Mirror of Erised. Snape/Lily. One-shot.


Ah, the return of the incorrigible. Me. XP

Sorry about the long wait for any update of any kind... things kinda went downhill fast for awhile, and I've been having a lot of unforseen, ah, issues this summer. But as good always triumphs evil, I have returned... perhaps not in the way that was expected, but that's never how it works, is it? Anyway, yes, I bring you - another Snape/Lily one-shot (what else?). This one takes place between _Sorcerer's Stone_ and _Chamber of Secrets_... and the title, as you'll see, is taken from that William Penn quote Rowling used at the beginning of _Deathly Hallows_. I've been wanting to do something with the Mirror of Erised for some while now, but I kept avoiding it as I couldn't see how to make it different from what everyone else was writing, especially as we all know what Snape would see. But I caught the phrase "in this divine glass" the other day and instantly thought of the mirror, and suddenly - _poof_ - I had it. Something I haven't seen before (though of course goodness knows that doesn't mean it hasn't already been written). And it was fun to write Dumbledore for a change; I don't often get the chance to play them off of each other. So anyway, read it and enjoy; hopefully, I got at least _something_ right. :)

**EDIT (6/10/12): **Finally fixed the opening line (how did I miss that mistake?) and added the necessary disclaimer. Other than that, nothing has been touched. :)

**Disclaimer: **All characters, plot references, etc., belong to J.K. Rowling. Not me, sadly.

* * *

_"__**In this Divine Glass, **__[Friends] see Face to Face__; and their Converse is Free, as well as Pure. This is the Comfort of Friends, that though they may be said to Die, yet their Friendship and Society are, in the best Sense, ever present, because Immortal." _~ William Penn

* * *

"It's somewhat useless now, you know."

Dumbledore's words echoed hollowly inside the empty room, and Severus Snape arched a single black eyebrow at him, not quite able to completely conceal his skepticism from the headmaster. They stood together in front of the Mirror of Erised, each standing at just enough of an angle to avoid looking directly into it and triggering the mirror's ability to show one's deepest desire. Both men knew what it held for them, and neither wished to open old wounds again – even the mere sight of it brought back memories that were unpleasant and difficult to ignore.

Dumbledore, catching Snape's disbelieving glance, raised both of his own bushy white eyebrows, his face the perfect picture of composure and calm. "Despite what you may think, Severus, this mirror truly is an unnecessary artifact, now that it has served its true purpose here at Hogwarts."

"What of the Sorcerer's Stone?" Snape asked.

"Ah, yes, the Stone. I have spoken with Nicolas, and we have agreed that the best course of action would be to destroy it. Remove the object of temptation, and temptation itself will be removed."

"But the Elixir of Life is all that is keeping him alive," said Snape, somewhat surprised at their decision. "Without the Stone, he cannot create more. He will run out."

Dumbledore smiled genially, though in his eyes Snape detected a small glimmer of sadness. "He assured me that he has enough Elixir left to put his affairs in order."

"And then?"

Dumbledore's silence was answer enough. Nicolas would use his remaining Elixir to say his goodbyes, and when it was finally gone, he would close his eyes for the last time, to sleep, perchance to dream. Nicolas Flamel, the oldest man and greatest alchemist alive, would die, after surviving for over six hundred years.

Snape did not speak again for some time. It was, in fact, the Dumbledore's voice that broke the silence for the second time, when he announced, very calmly, "I think that perhaps the same decision may apply here as well."

"You mean – destroy it?"

Snape had traded his surprise now for unease, but Dumbledore seemed only thoughtful. "Perhaps. I have not decided yet. That is why I brought you here, Severus – I would like your opinion on the matter. What do _you_ think should be done with it?" He turned to Snape now, his blue eyes kind and piercing and curious all at once.

Snape considered the matter carefully, his mind racing while his eyes stayed glued to the enchanted glass in the middle of the vast and somewhat chilly room. He personally had never liked the thing, having found too much pain and too many memories staring back at him from the other side of the looking glass, upon the rare occasion he had been unable to resist taking a look.

But now, as he stood there, looking _at_ but not _into_ it, he was not as keen as he had once been to be rid of it. It alone held the power to show him what could have been – what _should_ have been. No picture nor painting, nor even the sweetest of dreams, seemed as real as what it could show him.

If it was destroyed, he would lose that, forever.

But what could he say? Dumbledore was watching him, waiting, and Snape knew he expected a good decision, full of wisdom and common sense, not a plea based on unfulfilled wishes and a selfish longing for an impossible reality.

"There may be other uses for it, in the future," Snape said slowly, carefully keeping his expression impassive. "It would be a shame to destroy it, only to find we have need of it after all."

Dumbledore's eyes crinkled around the edges; whether it was because he was dubious, approving, or simply amused was unclear. "That _would_ be a shame," he replied after a moment, and turned back to the mirror, his gaze finding Snape's in the reflection. "Very well, then. It shall not be destroyed. But it should be removed from Hogwarts; its magic is far too powerful and alluring for it to be kept here without reason. I shall have to find someone willing to keep it for me, if and until we need it again."

"_I_ could take it… for the time being. Keep it safe until you find a more permanent home for it." Snape's gaze remained steady as he watched for Dumbledore's reaction in the mirror, but his heart did not.

There was a very pregnant pause, during which neither wizard moved; Snape, for his part, hardly dared even to breathe. What was he thinking? Surely Dumbledore would refuse; it was ridiculous even to have offered. But the words had been spoken, regardless of consent or regret, and now all he could do was wait for the inevitable dismissal.

Yet it never came. "That is very thoughtful of you, Severus," said Dumbledore at length. His face was now unreadable, even to an accomplished Legilimens such as Snape. "If it's not too much trouble…"

Snape shook his head automatically, all the while wondering if it was real, if he was not simply caught in a dream. He certainly _felt_ as if he were asleep; had he not been standing still, he surely would have moved like a sleepwalker, slow and sluggish and completely unaware of his surroundings. Even speech came slowly and with difficulty, though he was determined not to show it. "It shouldn't take up _too_ much space in the house. I shall take it with me directly, after the students have gone."

"Good," Dumbledore nodded, and, turning, brushed past him, heading for the door. He did not meet Snape's gaze as he passed by, his eyes focused instead on the door ahead, as if he simply could not see him. "Thank you, Severus. You have taken a great deal off my mind."

As he stepped across the threshold, however, he did throw one final glance back at Snape, who had remained behind. "I should like to remind you, though, of the bewitching nature of the mirror. It seems harmless enough, but many a good wizard has wasted away in front of it. Therefore, I think it would be wise to keep it covered while you have it in your possession." And with a final nod, he was gone; his footsteps echoed behind him for some time as he made his way back up to the upper portion of the castle.

When the footsteps had finally faded to silence, Snape turned back to the mirror. It had been months since he had last looked into it, and though he knew all too well what it would show him, it was still surprisingly tough to resist. _Just a glance,_ it seemed to whisper, _just a small peek. Just one more look, just one more time_. What harm could it do?

In spite of himself, he moved forward, taking a step so small it was hardly even a baby-step – but he was that much closer to the mirror, and already he could feel the increased appeal of the enchantment, and his resistance to the spell began, gradually, to ebb.

_One more look. One last time._

He started to take another step forward.

"It is almost supper-time," said a voice abruptly; startled, Snape spun around to find Dumbledore scrutinizing him from the doorway. Snape scowled; he had not heard the headmaster return, and was not pleased to have been caught off-guard. Dumbledore, however, seemed not to notice his discomfort. "Are you coming, Severus?"

Setting his jaw, Snape walked away from the mirror, following Dumbledore back upstairs without a single glance backward. But all throughout the meal he was distracted, and did not speak a single word nor meet a single person's eyes; his thoughts were wholly preoccupied with the vision he had refused to see, the desires he had refused to revisit.

* * *

A week later, Snape returned to the house at Spinner's End. Locking the door behind him, he took a look around, wondering… Ah, there it was, in the center of his bedroom, spirited ahead of him just as Dumbledore had promised. Snape grimaced; its perfectly polished surface and gleaming, elaborate gold frame seemed out of place in his otherwise dark and modestly furnished home, like a princess in a ball gown standing in the middle of a dilapidated alleyway.

Removed from the overlarge, dungeon-like room it had once been kept in, the mirror also seemed much bigger now, more beautiful – more tempting.

_And therefore, more dangerous,_ Snape thought, and, removing his cloak, approached the mirror in three short steps and quickly covered its illusive face with the heavy black fabric. It took a few tries – for some reason, getting the cloak to catch on the corners of the frame proved difficult – but eventually, the cloth was secured, and Snape closed his eyes briefly. _There._ It would be easier to ignore, now that there was no risk of him accidentally catching a glimpse of his long-lost past in the reflection.

Satisfied, he breezed past the charmed relic, heading for the living room to light a fire in the fireplace and unwind with one of his many, well-worn books. He spent the afternoon doing nothing but reading; it was nice, after yet another long year teaching the wrong class to the wrong students (most notably Potter's obnoxious, arrogant son; he scowled even now at his recollection of the boy) – it was nice to simply relax, and read, and forget, if only for a little while.

Though once upon a time this house had been his prison, he had, over time and with enormous determination, transformed it into a completely different place, so that the ghosts of the past rarely reared their heads in the new, unfamiliar environment. Upon inheriting the house, he had made sure to rid it completely of all the old, dismal memories – most especially those of his hated father – and had, in fact, kept only one thing: his mother's books. There was a special shelf just for them, standing in his bedchamber – the rest of the multitudinous volumes which lined the other walls in the house had been acquired over the course of many years; some had even been gifts, mostly from Dumbledore. One or two had been from Lily; it was one of these books, in fact, which he now held in his hands.

The day passed him by without disturbance, but as twilight faded into darkness, he found his mind had begun to wander from the text, roaming treacherously close to memories which he preferred not to think on, such as the day Lily had given him the book. It had been a Christmas present, wrapped in silver and blue paper…

Pressing his lips together in a thin, severe line, he snapped the book shut and rose from the chair in which he had been reclining to return the book to its place on the shelf. _There are more important things to consider,_ he told himself sternly. Truly, he _ought_ to have been preoccupied with thoughts of the Dark Lord – where he was, now that he was free of Quirrell's physical form, and what his next move would be.

Snape sighed heavily; the thought of what he would be asked to do, to _endure_, upon Voldemort's return was no easier to bear than the past he wished so desperately to forget. But it was a necessary evil, and so he returned to his chair, to contemplate the future, and all the shady uncertainties it possessed.

* * *

It was only when he lay still and quiet in the darkness of his bedroom, attempting to sleep, that the mirror's presence began to get under his skin. While before it had only seemed a minor itch to scratch, something he could easily resist, now that there were no distractions his mind was free to dwell on it. Despite his every attempt to wrench his thoughts away from the mirror, it always managed to creep back into his consciousness again… and again… and again. But he would not rise; he was not such a fool.

He slept fitfully that night, when he slept at all, and his sparse dreams were plagued with visions of silver and blue wrapping paper, sunlight reflecting off the surface of a river, and sparkling, enchanting green eyes, which shone when they looked at him.

* * *

Morning only brought brief relief; the first thing he saw upon sitting up was the cursed mirror, and a piece of his own reflection staring back at him. It appeared that sometime during the night, part of his cloak had slipped off of the frame, revealing half of the looking glass. For a moment, all he could do was stare; his mind still muddied with a poor night's sleep, he wondered distantly if the enchantment would work with only part of it visible.

Abruptly, he reminded himself that he did _not_ want to wait long enough to find out. He rose almost too quickly, stumbling a little as he crossed the room to pull the cloak up, anxious to avoid triggering the spell. He thought he caught a glimpse of dark red hair as he covered the mirror, but it might have just as easily been a trick of the light – or of the mind.

Once again, the day passed by as normally as any other: he read the paper, took care of the little details of housekeeping (not that there was much to do, as he was not what one would call "high maintenance"), and once again did some heavy reading, this time looking into the Dark Arts – namely, searching for how a disembodied soul might seek a physical form.

Yet, despite his best efforts, _it_ was still there, in the back of his mind all day, like a bad feeling he couldn't shake – invisible, but there. Once it became clear he would not be rid of it (at least not today), he did his best to simply not think about it.

This plan worked tolerably well during the day, but when the sky was dark once more and he retired to his bed in pursuit of rest, he found himself once again resisting the urge to toss and turn – or, even worse, to go to the mirror.

* * *

Two more nights passed in this manner: by day, he was exhausted by his newfound insomnia, and by night, he was a man tormented by temptation and his own determination not to give in to it. By the third evening, he was so strained by the ordeal that he nearly snapped when he was interrupted in his reading by the completely unexpected manifestation of a familiar face in the fireplace.

"Hello, Severus," said Dumbledore cheerfully; Snape nearly tossed his book at the fire in his surprise. Though it was hard to read Dumbledore's expression through the flames, Snape could easily imagine the man's snowy eyebrows slowly travelling up his forehead, a half-amused, half-concerned look in his blue eyes as he considered the Potions teacher's uncharacteristic agitation. "I apologize; have I startled you?"

Snape gritted his teeth, doing his best to force a calm, apathetic expression back onto his tired features. "No… although this is certainly unexpected," he said tersely. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The face in the fire seemed to be smiling now. "Just wondering how you have been keeping. Did it arrive safely?"

Snape didn't need to ask _what_. "Yes. I have kept it hidden, as you advised." He hesitated. "Have you… found new accommodations for it yet?"

Dumbledore took a moment to answer; it was hard to tell, but Snape got the feeling that the headmaster was scrutinizing him, judging his emotions before speaking. Snape did his best to comfort himself with the reminder that he was the most accomplished Occlumens Hogwarts had ever seen; Dumbledore could not possibly have seen what he was thinking. "Not yet, I'm afraid – although there are a few hopefuls. I fear it shall take me just a few more days. Are you sure, Severus, that this is not too much trouble for you?"

_Just a few more days. _"I am sure."

Dumbledore nodded, and changed the subject. "And what of your research?" he asked, and Snape knew he meant the information they sought on Voldemort. "Have you found anything of interest?"

Snape shook his head. "Nothing worth mentioning." Despite the numerous books he had on the subject, and all his old Death Eater connections, so far he had discovered nothing new or useful. "There has been little cause to investigate the subject in the past."

Dumbledore sighed. "Ah, well, we have only just begun – and we've miles to go before we sleep, eh? I have every confidence in you; I am sure something will turn up before the start-of-term in the fall." He leaned forward, appearing to squint at Snape. "You seem tired, Severus. Get some sleep. Your brilliant mind is no use to me if it is fogged and fuzzied by lack of sleep."

Snape shot him a dark look, and the face in the fireplace winked a farewell to him before disappearing, returning the flames to their normal shapes. When he was sure at last that the headmaster was gone, he allowed himself a small sigh of relief and sank bank into the chair.

"Oh, and Severus," said the voice again, and Snape jerked upright, his heartbeat erratic as he glared daggers at Dumbledore. "I was just curious – have you ever read a book called _Voyages with Vampires_?" Snape's blank expression said it all. Dumbledore tried again. "How about… _Magical Me_? I believe the author's name was Gilderoy Lockhart."

Snape sneered. "Lockhart. I have heard of his so-called _heroic_ deeds; I doubt if any of them are truth. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Dumbledore said, waving his hand dismissively. "Just wondering. Well – good-night." And with that, he vanished once again.

Snape closed his eyes. Brilliant or not, the man had a knack for wearing his patience thin sometimes. He prayed Dumbledore would not make a third appearance; he wasn't at all sure his nerves could have taken it just then.

_What could he possibly want with Gilderoy Lockhart?_ Snape wondered as he rose from his chair to douse the fire, wishing to make sure Dumbledore wouldn't surprise him again. He knew the headmaster never did or said anything without reason – even his most trivial comments were often incredibly valuable to remember – but as for what he could want with an egotistical twit like Lockhart, Snape could hardly guess.

As for his remarks about sleep… it was disturbing to think that even from the inside of a fireplace, Snape's weariness had become obvious. He was quite certain, despite Dumbledore's diplomacy, that the headmaster knew exactly what was keeping his Potions teacher up at night, and there was little doubt that he would be looking twice as hard for a new home for the Mirror of Erised, if only to spare an old friend.

But, in spite of everything, Snape found that a part of himself was hoping nothing would turn out, and that he would keep the mirror to himself. The larger, more logical piece of his mind said this was ridiculous, not to mention foolish, daft, and pointless – but that little voice in the back of his head was still whispering in the mirror's voice. _Just one last look. Just one last time._

He wondered, suddenly, if perhaps it wasn't so ridiculous after all. Maybe if he listened to it, if he sated this desire just this one time, it would give him peace and patience enough to last until he was rid of the mirror once and for all. Just one quick look, and then sleep. It would be nice to get a good night's rest again.

He was standing in his bedroom almost before he was aware he had moved. And there it was, waiting for him, its face veiled in black cloth and blacker shadows. Peering at the candles by the wall, he lit them with a nonverbal spell, and instantly the place brightened; only a hint of darkness still hung about the corners of the room.

He approached the mirror cautiously, with the air of someone skirting around a sleeping, but incredibly dangerous, dragon. He reached up slowly, his fingers barely brushing against the fabric of the cloak.

Though it was only a small movement, it was enough to send the cloth sliding down the frame in a cascade of darkness, pooling into a shady mass on the floor at his feet. For a moment, he froze, stunned by how quickly it had happened. Then he looked up into the mirror, and his arm dropped to his side as the image before him twisted, changing into something different – something better.

The Severus Snape in the mirror had half the lines and none of the weariness etched into the real one's face. He was not standing in his dimly lit, dusty quarters at Spinner's End, but rather on a familiar riverbank, sunlight streaming warmly down in golden shafts through the trees – and, also unlike the reality, he was not alone.

Snape's breath hitched in his chest. No matter how many times he dreamed of her, or saw her in pictures or in his mind's eye, he never ceased to be completely awestruck by how beautiful she was. Her ruddy hair flamed in the bright light, and her green eyes sparkled as she smiled at him. _Smiled._ At _him._ And she was holding his hand – his left hand, above which he knew, though it was covered by his sleeves, that his forearm was bare, free of any brands or scars.

"Lily," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears as the girl in the reflection leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. It had been _so_ long, _so_ many years – but he was hurting now just as much as he had the day she'd…

No, he would not think about that. For the moment, he could pretend it was all a dream, that he was really just on the wrong side of the looking glass – that the true reality was what he saw in the reflection. This – what he had become, what he done, what he had lost… it _couldn't_ be real.

The minutes ticked by slowly, and with each tick of the clock in the hall, the part of him that was still seeing sense told him to bend down, grab the cloak, and cover the mirror up for good. But he couldn't seem to move; it was hard enough just to breathe, let alone look away from the image before him. Who needed dreams, or any sleep at all, for that matter, when they had _this_?

He spent an hour and a half before the mirror, doing nothing more than looking, and wishing, and remembering. Not the bad things – only good things, like the days they had spent sprawled in the grass by the very same river he saw in the reflection, just talking, or all the times she had chosen him over the world, taking his side in spite of everyone else…

Every look, every smile, every touch, was agony to remember – but the pain was outweighed for once by the pleasure. Caught in the mirror's enchantments, he could forget _why_ it hurt, and just focus instead on what might have been.

It was the candles which finally brought him back to his senses; having already been well-used, they were short when he lit them, and when they finally burned themselves out, plunging him into darkness, it had a similar effect to dumping a bucket of ice-water on a sleeping man. He glanced at the clock in the hall, which he could see through the open door, he was troubled by how long he had spent thus. Keeping his gaze directed at anything _but_ the reflection (which shone brightly even in the darkness), he reached down, seized the cloak, and tossed it over the mirror in one swift, fluid movement. When he was certain the cloth was secure, he turned, and swept past the bed and out the door, heading instead for his kitchen.

The potion he had in mind was fairly easy to make, after having had years of practice; for anyone else, it would have been a daunting task. It was called Somnium Reprehendo; with ingredients similar to those of a sleeping draught and the Draught of Peace, it was meant to provide the drinker with deep, nightmare-free sleep. Aside from being notoriously complex (although thankfully quick to make, provided you did it correctly), it was also wont to stop all dreaming completely, if taken too often, and reportedly could also be somewhat addictive.

But Snape didn't particularly mind the risks. No dreams would be better than the nightmares _his_ mind was capable of producing, and as for dependence on the potion – well, at least then he'd have _something_ to rely on. When the potion was finished, brewed perfectly as always, he poured it into a wine-glass (one of the few he had) and downed it all in one gulp. He placed what was left in the cauldron into a large vial, which he put into the top cabinet over the sink.

Already feeling a bit sluggish, Snape just barely made it to his chair beside the fireplace before he slipped, with a small, satisfied sigh, into sweet, serene slumber which was completely devoid of anything but good memories (some of which were not real, but still pleasant to imagine). When Lily's face, unsurprisingly, appeared behind his closed eyes, he almost smiled in his sleep.

Almost.

* * *

The next night was the same routine; unable to keep away, he dragged the cloak down off the mirror and watched his fill of the life he never had, only to realize with a start that the "few moments" he had meant to spend in front of it had stretched on for more than an hour. Then, throwing the covering back over the glass, he fled from the room, seeking solace in a vial full of Somnium Reprehendo and a comfortably worn chair beside a cooling fireplace.

The next night after that, and more following that, followed a similar pattern. The "moments" before the mirror grew longer and longer, so that he came to spend more of the night in waking dreams, rather than asleep. At length, he stopped leaving the room, trading his chair back for his bed once more. In the span of four more days, the Somnium Reprehendo drained what little sleep he had of all true dreams; shadows formed under his eyes from his lack of real rest, but the weariness he became so painfully aware of in the morning seemed to fade towards nightfall, and in front of the mirror he never felt tired at all – except when he walked away from it.

Dimly, he was aware that his distraction with the mirror was dissolving into obsession; part of him knew that he should never have offered to take it, and that he should ask Dumbledore to retrieve it from him, but another part of him wondered what the point of it all was. What did any of it matter, really, except what he saw in the mirror? It was only a small part of him which whispered this, a broken piece of his heart which had never healed after Lily's death – a part of him he had learned to ignore over the many years he had spent working for Dumbledore. But the lines between waking and sleeping were blurring, and between the restless nights and distracted days, he was no longer sure what was right.

* * *

It was not until the fifth night that some of his good sense came back to him. That night, he fell asleep in front of the mirror for the first time. Without having taken any dream-altering potions to protect him, he was defenseless in his own mind, and throughout the night he was assaulted by nightmares – James Potter and his friends, jeering; Lily shouting at him, ignoring him, laughing right along with them; Voldemort's face, the night he'd decided the Potters were the target of the prophecy; the name Lily Evans Potter, carved into stone, over the fresh grave in which she was buried beside her husband, which should have been him…

And in his ears rang all the screams of all the deaths he'd witnessed as a Death-Eater, and the howling of the winds that night he'd begged Dumbledore to protect Lily, and his own inhuman cries when he'd lost her, despite every effort to save her. It was as if the Sandman was taking revenge on him for resisting true dreaming for so long - and it was, unfortunately, a punishment that could not be avoided.

He woke himself with a muffled cry the next morning; despite his night-terrors, he had slept without waking through the night. Now, as he blinked sweat out of his eyes and forced himself to take deep, calming breaths, he glanced at the clock in the hall, and marveled that it was already almost noon. No wonder the night had seemed to last an eternity – he had not slept so long in almost a full week.

Catching movement to his right, he froze; though he was not looking directly at it, he could see his reflection out of the corner of his eye, and realized with a cold dread that the mirror remained uncovered. He covered his face with his hands, infuriated to find that they were shaking, but he was too shaken himself to still them.

In the midst of his agony, Dumbledore's advice came back to him, sounding as if it came from miles away – another time, perhaps, in another place. _Remove the object of temptation,_ he had said,_ and temptation itself will be removed._

In his mind's eye, he saw the place the mirror had banished him to, a place where all dreams were nightmares, and reflections were dreams, and the life he should have had was taking over the life he'd found instead…

He shook his head, once, sharply. This would not do. This would not do at all. He had sworn to protect her son, he had promised Dumbledore and himself he would do his best to keep her death from being meaningless. Her life could not – _would_ not – have been given in vain. He needed to focus; he needed to go back to work, anticipating what the Dark Lord would do next, and how it might be prevented.

He needed to get rid of that mirror.

Part of him, that small, whispering, broken part of him, twisted painfully at this admission. Get rid of it? He could hardly live without it. How could he possibly even _think_ about…

_That is why I brought you here, Severus._

_What do _you_ think should be done with it?_

Slowly, he rose; all traces of his former tremors were gone now, replaced with an uncanny stillness, both physically and emotionally. For one instant, he felt completely hollow, like a body without a soul – an empty vessel, and nothing more.

Then he thought of Lily, brave Lily, who had given her life for her son's, who had once had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen. Eyes which she had given to her son. He could still see them, even now, clear as day.

He could not let her down.

Without thinking any further, he lunged for his wand, pointing it straight at the heart of the mirror. But once there he froze; this was not an action to be performed lightly, without thought for the consequences. This was irreversible; if he destroyed it, the spell would be broken. He would never see the reflection which had so captivated him ever again.

Surely there was another way? Surely he could last just a little longer, just a few more days, until Dumbledore found someone else to take it?

_Just one more look. Just one last time._

No – never again. It had taken him far too long to see it: that there would _always_ be "just one more" look, "one last time." No matter how many times he looked into the mirror, he would always walk away longing for more. There was no satisfaction to be had in wishing for the impossible; only more pain, and nothing to gain from it.

He was decided. Before he could think any further ahead – before he could lose his resolve – he shouted a curse which he could only hope would be enough to overcome the magic of the enchantment already in place. "REDUCTO!"

A flash of white-hot light erupted from his wand; Snape's eyes, still adjusting after the long night's sleep, were nearly blinded, and he flung his free arm up to shield them as the spell was cast. Unable to see, he was instead bombarded with sound, as the explosion of shattering glass and fracturing metal pervaded the room, following a deafening bang.

Hundred of sharp little _somethings_ fell, tinkling, all around him, burying in his hair, his sleeves, his collar. Opening one eye hesitantly, he saw that they had the sparkle and shine of something reflective… something very much like a mirror.

After the blast of the spell, the utter silence in the room was practically a physical presence, like another person in the room staring at him, waiting for him to speak. Slowly, he lowered his arm; little slivers of glass fell from his sleeves and his hair as he shook himself, falling to scatter amongst hundreds more below.

He followed the trail of glass to the mirror – or rather, to the spot where the mirror had been. Now, there was nothing left of it but an empty, cracked frame, and the disenchanted fragments on the floor.

_I have done it,_ he thought dazedly. _It is gone._

Someone knocked on the front door, and he jumped. For a moment, the strangeness of such a commonplace sound, after all the surrealistic confusion of the past week, held him rooted to the spot. It took a second set of knocks to finally get him moving; like a man in a trance, he made his way down the hall to the front door.

"Good afternoon," said Dumbledore cheerfully, stepping in from the summer sunlight without waiting for a reply or an invitation. Closing the door behind him, Snape fought for control over his whirling emotions, doing his best to assume a mask of indifference.

Dumbledore pretended to be convinced. "I come bearing good news. I have finally found someone to take that tiresome Mirror of Erised off your hands, Severus. A good friend of mine in Italy, Giovanni DeFiore has agreed to keep it for me, until such a time as we may need it. So if you could just direct me to the mirror…"

Snape winced. "There has been a rather, ah, _unfortunate_ development regarding that particular piece of antiquity," he said slowly as he guided the headmaster down the hall to his room.

"What do you mean?" queried Dumbledore, for all appearances completely astonished. "Has something happened to it?"

Wordlessly, Snape stepped aside to allow the older man to see into the room in which the broken frame stood amongst the broken glass. His face was now carefully guarded for a different reason than before; now, he was preparing himself to bear the heavy weight of Dumbledore's disappointment. He was supposed to keep it safe until it was moved; instead, he had destroyed it, possibly beyond repair.

Dumbledore stood on the threshold, staring at the wreckage with raised eyebrows. "Oh my," he said after a moment. "That is rather bothersome." Snape glanced at him curiously. He had all but disintegrated the mirror; he hardly thought _bothersome_ even began to describe it. But he held his tongue, waiting until Dumbledore spoke again, as he certainly would.

"Well, I certainly can't ship it off to Italy in shambles," Dumbledore said thoughtfully. "A pity, too; it would have made a lovely addition to Giovanni's collection. He, too, is a collector of oddities, like myself."

"I – apologize, Dumbledore." They were hard words to say, and harder still to say them to the one man in the world Snape trusted (albeit grudgingly). But they were necessary, and so he forced them past the lump in his throat, his eyes fixed on some point on in the room just past Dumbledore's face.

"Whatever for?" Dumbledore asked, and Snape's frown deepened. Could he truly not care that such a valuable object had been ruined? "Either way, you have saved me the trouble of keeping it at Hogwarts. And I don't expect Giovanni will be _too_ disappointed – his collection is far too grand for him to really miss a dusty old looking glass."

Snape stared at him suddenly. "You meant for this to happen."

Dumbledore looked back at him, still smiling, and did not reply.

Snape continued, his voice catching on something halfway between anger and awe. "You intended to have it destroyed from the beginning. You were hoping _I_ would do the work for you."

"It appears my faith in you, as always, was well-deserved." Dumbledore moved past him to stand in the center of the room, and began with his wand to piece the mirror-shards back together, almost like a very elaborate jigsaw puzzle. Snape stayed by the door, unable to do more than watch. "True, I could have destroyed it then and there – but I knew what you were thinking, Severus. You were thinking that if it was gone, you would lose… whatever it was you saw in the reflection." What Snape saw in the mirror was no secret to either of them, but Snape was grateful nonetheless for Dumbledore's discretion. "If I had broken it that night, you would have been left with that eternal, nagging question of 'what if?' What if you had looked into it one last time? What if you had just one more moment with it – one more chance?"

Snape stiffened; Dumbledore's words were an eerie echo of his own thoughts, not so long ago. "When you offered to take it home, I hesitated. I knew how terrible it would be for you, to be so close to something so painful, yet so tempting. But it would be a lesson well-learned, if you managed to learn from the experience – so I agreed, in the hopes you would make the choice on your own.

"You are a talented professor, Severus – but you still have so much to learn." The glass, having completely restored itself, floated upwards under Dumbledore's supervision and settled back into place in the frame, which was no longer cracked. Snape glanced worriedly at it, but Dumbledore only smiled. "The spell is lifted; it is nothing more now than a simple mirror."

Quickly hiding his relief, he glowered at Dumbledore. "You put me through this, this trial by fire – on _purpose_?"

Dumbledore sighed. "Do not judge me too harshly yet – think, first. Do you think I would willingly put you in any form of distressing situation, without reason? I regret that you lost so much sleep over it, Severus, I truly do – I didn't expect the effects to be quite so stressful for you. But if you hadn't gone through it – if you hadn't experienced, and _overcome_ it – you would still be wondering about the mirror, even now. Am I right?"

Snape clenched his jaw, irritated that Dumbledore was right.

"However," continued Dumbledore, reducing the mirror with a wave of his wand to a size that fit comfortably in his pocket, "since you _have_ overcome it, I can only assume that you gained something from it. A reminder, perhaps, that we must always try our best to live in the present, and leave the past behind us. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live."

He placed a consoling hand on Snape's shoulder briefly as he passed by him into the hall. He wondered briefly if he should write to Giovanni in Italy about the whole incident, and smiled to himself; after all, there had never been a Giovanni DeFiore in the first place – at least, not one that _he_ knew of. Nor was the mirror's enchantment truly broken – Dumbledore had caught a glimpse of his own haunted past before shoving it into the pocket of his robes. But there were some things, he decided, that Snape simply did not need to know.

"Well, that's that then," he said. "I am sorry to leave you so soon, but I really must be getting back to work. A headmaster's work is never done. Goodbye." He nodded over his shoulder at Snape as he let himself out the front door, Apparating away as soon as the lock clicked shut behind him.

Taking a long, deep breath, Snape leaned a little against the doorframe, still standing just outside his bedroom.

So Dumbledore orchestrated the whole thing. He had expected Snape to destroy the mirror from the beginning. That was what he was _supposed_ to have done, all along.

Unexpectedly, this knowledge did not lessen his sense of relief, and the small measure of triumph that came with it.

Moving from the doorway, he circled the space the Mirror of Erised had once occupied. His roomed seemed bigger, emptier, now that it was gone. But was a peaceful sort of emptiness – the kind usually found in vast plains, or beautiful meadows.

The clock on the wall outside the room chimed twelve, and somewhere outside he heard kids playing on the sidewalk. Things, it seemed, were back to normal.

* * *

That night, he lay down to sleep without drinking any Somnium Reprehendo, this time on purpose. He figured he deserved whatever dreams came to him that night, whether or not they were nightmares, and it was just as well – there was nothing left of the last batch of the potion, anyway. So he closed his eyes and prayed for the best, but expected the worst.

He dreamed, as always, of dark red hair, and green eyes. Even asleep, he knew he was dreaming; it was a lucid dream, and he was fully aware that he had only a few hours to enjoy it before the morning stole it away from him again. This knowledge tainted the dream bittersweet, but it was beautiful, even the sorrowful parts – and for the first time in many years, Snape was almost truly happy.

Almost.

It was an unfamiliar feeling, but a good one, and he held on to it as long as he could.


End file.
